


The city of echoes and yearning

by soy_em



Category: Supernatural
Genre: London, M/M, Roma | Rome, sam and dean in europe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-07-29 14:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16265774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soy_em/pseuds/soy_em
Summary: When Rowena gets her hands on half of an ancient amulet, which will allow her to access the power of an old Celtic Goddess, Sam and Dean have to find her before she can secure the second half of the amulet and become more powerful than they could ever imagine. They find themselves chasing Rowena across London and Rome in a quest to find her, while dealing with their long-repressed feelings for each other.





	The city of echoes and yearning

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The City of Echoes and Yearning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16354205) by [azziria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azziria/pseuds/azziria). 



> Written for the Wincest Big Bang 2018
> 
> Thanks as always to [Nisaki](https://nisaki-chan.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing this and supporting me while I was writing it.

Sam wakes up slowly, pain thudding behind his eyes and racing across his back. The cold stone doesn’t feel like his bed, which is concerning; even more worrying is the bright sunlight scalding his eyes. The Bunker doesn’t have sunlight. 

Once awareness trickles in, adrenaline hits and Sam lurches upwards, new waves of pain radiating across his body. His panic eases when he realises Dean is in reach, passed out to his side, out of the sunbeam that woke Sam. There’s no sign of anyone else. 

The mannequins surrounding them keep their eerie, sightless eyes on Sam, accelerating his desire to get the fuck out before the museum opens for the morning. 

“Dean, Dean.”

Reaching across, he shakes his brother’s shoulders; and again, harder, when Dean doesn’t wake. A quick glance at his watch shows it’s 8.45am. Not only had they been unconscious for hours, they have about fifteen minutes tops before someone shows up to open for the day. 

“Dean!”

Dean mumbles, smacking his lips together, eyes crinkling; and Sam’s heart beats again, double time. 

“C’mon Dean, we gotta get up.”

Dean blinks around. “Where’s Rowena?”

“I have no idea. Guess she knocked us out.” 

“And the amulet?”

Sam doesn’t even bother to answer, just shrugs. 

“Motherfucker.”

***

They’re back in the Bunker by evening, trading off driving more frequently than usual because of their stiff backs. Sam’s still not used to it, the feeling of reassurance and familiarity that hits when he heaves open the Bunker door; but its a good feeling, one he wants to have as often as possible.

Dean snags the whiskey and makes straight for his Dean-cave. “You coming?”

Sam should say no, should start trying to get a handle on what Rowena will do next, how they can find her before she locates the other half of the amulet; but his back hurts, he’s exhausted, and more than anything, he wants to be near Dean. So he abandons his duffel in the war room and follows Dean’s footsteps down the echoing hallways, before slumping into the right hand lounger that has come to be his.

Rowena can wait until tomorrow.

***

Sam’s hunched over his laptop, wide shoulders drawing in as close as possible to the screen. Dean, in contrast, makes a point of sprawling out over as much space as he can; they have room, why shouldn’t he take up space in his own home?

“You’re not gonna like this,” Sam says, mouth pursed but eyes dancing. Dean knows that look - it means nothing good. “She’s not in the country anymore.”

Well, Dean’s been hankering for a trip south of the border for a while. “Mexico or Canada?” he asks, trying not to let his preference show. He’ll work on getting Sam to agree to some Mexican fun once they get there. 

“Neither. England.”

He should’ve expected that, he thinks wryly. It’s not like Rowena isn’t familiar with the country. “I guess that means we’re handing over to someone else then.”

Sam blinks at him, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“We’re not ‘handing over to someone else’,” he says, prissy bitch face fully in situ. “We killed most of their hunters, remember?” 

Oh shit. “Well we can’t go ourselves.” 

Sam’s definitely smiling. “Why not? We’re responsible for her. We’ve gotta finish this.”

“But…” Dean can’t think of a single answer that doesn’t stop him from having to get on a plane. “But…” 

Sam’s mouth twists into a wry grin. “Don’t worry, baby,” he says, mocking tone learned from Dean. “I’ll keep you safe.” 

Dean throws a book at him and tries to ignore how that teasing word, unuttered in so many years, catches at his insides. 

***

Two days later, they’re ready to go. There are new credit cards in their pockets - Nigel Jones and Harry Smythe are ready for their trip home. “Could you be more obviously fake?” Sam had asked, eyes rolling; but they’re perfectly good names. 

“We could call Garth,” Dean suggests.

“Yes, werewolves are well known for international travel.”

“What about Jody?” 

“Can you imagine her meeting Rowena? I feel like the world would implode.” 

Now he thinks about it seriously, it’s a terrifying thought. Best not. 

“What about…” 

“Get in the car, Dean.”

Dean’s never been so reluctant to get into baby, but Sam’s face suggests he doesn’t want to find out about the alternative. It’s a painful reversal, Sam being the responsible adult; Dean barely prefers it to flying.

The airport is a long procession of people not respecting his personal boundaries. Dean’s a tactile guy, but he draws the line at people patting him down in public, especially when he knows he has no weapons on him. They’re already hooked up to meet someone in London who can replace those within a couple of hours of them landing, but it still makes him feel naked. Their fake passports are of exceptional quality - an old gift from Charlie - but there’s still a moment when Dean wonders if their faces are still plastered up in airports from any of the many times the FBI has been on their backs. 

And then they’re through, and “The worst is over,” Sam assures him - but its not, because they’re on a plane. 

Dean hates everything about it. He’s flown a couple of times in his life, but each moment is seared into his brain: the close walls, the stale air, the fake-polite cabin crew; and the uncomfortably small chairs. At least Sam looks even less comfortable than he is; but Sam’s also smirking gently at him.

“Here, I bought you a gift,” Sam says. He holds out his hand, two pills gleaming from the centre of his palm. 

“No,” Dean says emphatically. “Definitely not. What if something goes wrong? I need my wits about me.” He glances around nervously, looking for suspicious characters and listening for unusual noises. 

“Then you’ll definitely want to be unaware. At least you’ll die happy.”

Dean’s head snaps back around towards Sam, eyes narrowed when he sees Sam’s grin. “Fucker.”

“Just take them.” There’s a pause. “Unless you’re scared?” 

It’s a cheap ploy, but damn him, it works. Dean can’t help but snatch the pills out of Sam’s hand, knocking them back without resorting to the bumper bottle of water Sam insisted they buy. 

“You better save my ass if something goes wrong.”

Dean’s got more than enough coordination left to punch Sam in the arm when all he gets in return is a patronising pat on the head. 

***

When Dean wakes up, the first thing he sees is Scooby Doo, grinning back at him from the small screen in front of him. He’s dazed enough that he thinks he’s back in cartoon world, before the noise asserts itself around him: he’s on a plane. He can’t bring himself to care, though; everything’s fuzzy around the edges, soft and heavy. Sammy really gave him the good stuff.

Sam’s not there, though; the seat next to him is empty. Panic tries to force itself through the porridge of Dean’s brain: no Sammy is a bad thing, a very bad thing. He’s getting to grips with how bad of a thing when Sam thumps down into the seat beside him, beer in hand. 

“You’re awake,” Sam says quietly. 

“You’re not lost,” Dean replies. It’s happier than it should sound, but Dean can’t care. 

Sam chuckles. “No, Dean, not lost. Went to get a beer.”

Dean huffs in agreement. He should probably want a beer. He thinks blearily about trying to reach for Sam’s, but it seems like too much effort. Sam’s hand is awfully far away.

“‘S’long as you’re not lost.” 

“Not lost, Dean. Go back to sleep, we’ve a way to go still.”

That sounds like an awesome plan. Dean snuggles into Sam, inhaling the familiar scent of him, enjoying the unknown softness of his new fleecy hoodie against Dean’s face. 

“You’re adorable like this,” he hears, from the end of a tunnel. A hand sweeps gently through his hair, setting it on end and back again, and Dean sighs in contentment.

***

Dean is not cut out for London, he decides within a couple of hours of landing. As if their wobbly descent hadn’t been enough, they’d had to walk for miles through a harshly lit hellhole to find their bags and then take a crowded, smelly train under the ground into the centre of the city, caffeine-deprived morning commuters giving them stink-eye as they wrangle their bags on and off. Dean misses his baby with all his heart, and thinks he’s found something he likes as little as flying.

Discussion had raged long and hard about staying somewhere cheaper in the outskirts of the city versus forking out for a hotel in the centre. But Sam had won, eventually, with the indisputable point that Rowena would no doubt be staying somewhere fancy and well-located; and Dean had given in with a sigh. So they find themselves dodging dawlding tourists and intent businessmen as they make their way down through the sweeping piazzas and crowded market stalls of Covent Garden; their duffels too wide for the pavement and their legs too long for the slow pace they’re forced to adopt. 

“This is it,” Sam says, looking up from his phone with a frown. “We need to get in and get online; we should be able to find out where she’s checked into.”

“You gonna hack every hotel in the city?” Dean asks, genuinely curious.

“If I have to. But I’m gonna start with the most expensive.” 

***

Sure enough, Rowena has checked into the Savoy. “Could she be any more of a cliche?” Sam says, rolling his eyes; Dean doesn’t follow, but he decides its not important. His brain still feels a little cloudy and he’s happily letting Sam take the lead for once. 

“So. We need a plan. She’s probably going to leave as soon as she’s got the other half of the amulet; which means she probably hasn’t got it yet. If you were going to hide a priceless Celtic artifact in London for hundreds of years, where would you put it?”

They stare at each other in dismay. London is by far the oldest place they’ve ever been - barring their brief trip to Scotland years ago - and it’s huge. It feels like around every corner is a building that’s hundreds of years old; palatial buildings made of Georgian stone stand next to frillier, fancier Victorian brickwork, with the odd art-deco mansion block thrown in for good measure; all squashed together and rudely interrupted by grim, grey modern buildings that look like they could steal your soul. Worse, Dean already knows there’s a whole network of unpleasant, stuffy tunnels under the city filled with sweltering trains and accessed through portals in the ground heaving with people, so who knows what else is hiding down there. 

“We could try famous libraries and museums…” Sam starts, face taking on a sly look that means he thinks he’s being subtle. “Something like that is most likely to be in a museum. We could go check them all out.”

They’d passed the National Gallery on their walk, it’s grandiose cream stone and pillars looming over the biggest open space Dean had seen since they arrived. Artists had crowded the square outside, chalk portraits stunning in their impermanence and contrasting sharply with the Yodas and Pikachus shiling for tourist cash. Sam’s face had lit up when he’d seen it, his pace slowing as he looked back at the entrance; but Dean had hurried him on, frowning at the people bedding down in its shadows. 

Dean literally cannot think of anything he would rather do less. They’re in the land of pubs - surely that should be the priority. “We need to check out all the old buildings, if we’re going to follow that logic. I hear there’s a pub here from the 1500s.”

Sam’s clearly as irritated with Dean’s suggestion.

“No pubs. Not until we’ve found Rowena.”

“Well, we’re not going to find her in a museum. She seem like a museum kinda chick to you?”

That seems to have Sam stumped, and he deflates, his dream of a day of museums disappearing before his eyes. 

“I think we just need to find her and follow her.”

***

That’s easier said than done. A quick look down the cul-de-sac towards the Savoy is enough to tell them they’re going to need to up their game. 

“I don’t think army and navy is gonna cut it here,” Dean says, doubtfully. 

“I hate to say it Dean, but you’re not wearing army and navy. That’s thrift.”

“It was your Christmas gift to me!” Dean’s about half as scandalised as he’s pretending to be, but really, he’d had no idea Sam had bought the shirt from a thrift store. It hardly matters, they’ve spent most of their lives in hand-me-downs; but he’d taken a secret joy in the thought of Sam in a store, staring at a rack of plaid and choosing the one that would suit Dean the best. One he’d like to see Dean wear. Dean thinks about different outfits (and also, a complete lack of outfits altogether) for Sam all the time; he’d enjoyed the thought that Sam returned the favour.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Either way, nothing we’ve brought is going to work. We’ve gotta up our game.”

Dean frowns. They have a wide array of skills between them - they’re not stumped by mechanics or building or weapons or research or impersonating officers of the law - but neither of them would count shopping amongst their talents. 

“We’ve gotta find more weapons, too, these aren’t enough,” Dean says. “Why don’t I take care of that and you find us some new clothes?” 

He can’t keep the naked hope out of his voice, the pathetic desperation to avoid an afternoon of clothes shopping.

“You must be joking,” Sam says flatly. 

“You know my size…” Dean tries to interject, but Sam shakes his head. 

“No way. There is absolutely no way I am going to shop for you. If we have to endure this, we’re doing it together.” 

Sam’s face has the implacable look which means nothing will change his mind - Dean had seen it for the first time when two year old Sam had been determined to get out of a playpen and get closer to Dean - but there’s also a hint of the wide, beseeching look that always gets him his way; and under that, oh god even worse, a hint of panic. It’s a killer combination, and even if Dean mustered every single bit of his not-inconsiderable willpower, he would be powerless to resist. 

“Oh fuck me,” he says. Sam’s eyes flash with something undefinable, before he smiles. “I’m guessing they don’t have Target here?” 

“I think we have to aim even higher than Target, Dean,” Sam says primly. Dean scrubs his hands through his hair, but grabs his wallet with their fake credit cards before following Sam away from the hotel.

***

“So who is the chick the amulet belonged to again?” Dean doesn’t want to ask outright, but he knows Sam will have done research on the plane. He’d seen his little brother downloading document after document to their laptop during their drive to the airport; while he has little idea what happened during those ten hours he was blissfully unaware of the fact that he was floating thousands of feet above the ground, he’s happy to assume Sam spent at least some of it reading.

“Brigantia. She was a Celtic goddess.” Sam pulls clothes out of his bag with annoyance, scattering them across the bed.

“Of…” Dean prompts . He’s had more than enough experience to know how important that could be. 

“It’s not fully clear, but possibly of victory.”

Dean hums from where he’s perched in an easy chair. There are at least some advantages to staying in a nicer hotel. “Well, if I was gonna choose to be a goddess of something, I’d definitely choose victory.”

“If you were going to be a Goddess?” Sam prompts, laughter in his voice. 

Dean flushes. “Well, a god obviously.”

“It’s ok, Dean, if you feel like you’re not in the right body.” Sam’s outright laughing.

“Fuck off. You’re the girl in this relationship, Samantha.”

Sam snorts, as the tips of his ears redden. “Whatever. Anyway. Brigantia. There’s relatively little information on her that I can find, but we know the amulet belonged to her. It was found in the north of England, somewhere called Yorkshire. She seems to have been known as a ‘protector’ who brought victory to her tribe.”

“And the amulet?” 

“Harnesses her power for the wearer. She doesn’t seem to have been the kind of goddess who demanded epic tribute, either; so it’s unlikely she’s lost all her power.”

“Brilliant. I can’t think why Rowena would want that.”

“Exactly,” Sam agrees. “I have no idea what she suddenly wants to do with it, why she wants more than her nice easy luxury life, but it can’t be anything good.”

Dean is more than willing to agree with that. Their on-off relationship with Rowena is always fractious; one moment she’s a key ally, the next she’s reverted to her old mischief. Dean likes her, he does; she keeps them both on their toes and they have enough respect between them now they can usually settle things sensibly. But that doesn’t mean they can let something like this continue. 

“Guess we better go find it then.” They leave their hotel, ready for their first task: braving a clothes shop.

 

***

They fight their way down Oxford Street, which they’d identified as London’s main shopping area. It’s like a battle; Dean feels too big for the spaces he’s given to move in, tourists crushing him on either side, people crashing into him and running suitcases over his feet, while obnoxious neon signage blinks overhead and music blares from the open maws of shops selling tourist tat. If he feels like this, he can’t even imagine how Sam feels; his brother has always been clumsier, less able to move his limbs through space with the grace Dean had picked up in adolescence. It’s not that Sam’s long legs, arms, wide shoulders and huge paws aren’t beautiful; its that Sam has so little confidence in using them for anything other than fighting. 

Dean keeps turning his head around, worried he’ll lose Sam in the crush. They both actively avoid this kind of environment usually; Dean hates being anywhere he can’t constantly be within touching distance of Sam. The last time they were in such a crowd, before their tube experience this morning, was the Vince Vincente concert where they’d fought Lucifer; this is only marginally better.

“What was it called, Sammy?” he yells back.

“The hotel said to try Selfridges,” Sam responds. They’d asked their hotel for somewhere they could buy all the new clothes they needed in one place. The hotel clerk had given them a indiscreet look up and down, not bothering to hide her thoughts; and recommended a department store with a personal shopper service. 

Dean looks around, desperate for it to be nearby. With relief, he can see the sweeping collonade ahead, a waterfall of tourists pouring from every door. Grabbing Sam’s wrist, he maneuvers them inside, hoping for a measure of peace. 

He’s wrong; inside is busier. They’ve entered through the perfume section, and he immediately hears Sam sneeze behind him. “Man, you’re shit at everything about women, aren’t you?” he snarks. 

Sam hits him on the back of the head. “I prefer a more natural smell.”

“You prefer no smell at all, because you never get any,” Dean replies tartly, moving away before he gets hit again. “Let’s find the menswear department first, and then we’ll find Junior Miss for you.”

Sam gives him such a glare that Dean’s insides would shrivel if he cared. The only possible way to make this ordeal more bearable is to make Sam more miserable.

***

An hour later, Dean emerges from a changing room cubicle to check on Sam’s progress. “C’mon out, Sammy. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about; we already know you’re the less attractive brother, and obviously in these clothes that’s gonna be even clearer.” 

Dean does look good, even if he says so himself. They’d agreed to buy three outfits, just in case they needed to pursue Rowena somewhere else fancy. “They’re an investment purchase,” Sam had said, eyes pained. “Once we’ve got them we’ve got them until you get fat. Think of them like our fed suits.”

Dean had protested, but only because he’d felt obliged (and because of the fat joke - Sam was as likely to put on weight as he was); now he’s in his new clothes, designer jeans moulded to his skin and shirt stretching taut across his shoulders, he knows he looks damn good. He’s taking these clothes out to a bar once they’ve sorted Rowena. 

“C’mon Sammy,” he coaxes again. “The nice lady went to all the bother of picking the clothes for you, she’s gonna want to see.”

The door of Sam’s changing room stutters open, and Sam’s head peeks out. “I really don’t feel very comfortable like this, Dean,” he says, cheeks rosy. 

“Stop being such a baby,” Dean says bracingly. “It can’t be that bad.” Sam ducks his head, but he follows instructions and steps out. 

Dean forgets how to breathe. He’s so used to seeing Sam covered in all his layers, even at home in the bunker, that this is a revelation. Sam’s wearing close cut trousers that almost caress his ass; a white shirt stretched tight across his chest, buttons literally straining open, and a little waistcoat that highlights the indent of his narrow waist. 

“Fuck, Sammy,” he whispers, an avalanche of buried feelings roaring back to life. 

“I told you it was bad,” Sam says, mouth turning down. 

Dean composes himself, so he can speak without his voice cracking like a teenager. “It’s fine. Obviously you don’t look as good as me but you’ll do.”

Sam scowls. “You look like a cheesy magazine model,” he shoots back. 

“That’s not what the ladies will be telling me tonight.” Dean’s desperately trying to regain some of his equilibrium. 

Sam’s scowl deepens. “We’re going to be too busy for you to hook up,” he says, irritably. 

“I’m not wasting these clothes,” Dean says, gesturing to his own outfit. 

“You won’t have a choice.” Sam turns on his heel and stalks back into his changing room, slamming the door behind him. Dean can hear him muttering, though he can’t make out the words. He feels shell shocked; both from the vision of Sam, for once in clothes that fit; and from the argument that had blown up out of nowhere. 

Fuck, but Sam had looked insanely hot… he pushes the thoughts back down where they belong, and goes to get changed back into his street clothes. 

***

After a surreptitious outfit change in a McDonalds toilet (“Classy,” Sam had muttered, while Dean tried not to touch anything with his bare hands), they walk as briskly as they can back towards the Savoy. 

“We could hop on the underground,” Sam points out, snappily. 

“I’m not getting into that hellhole of a tin box again unless I absolutely have to,” Dean retorts; so they walk. It doesn’t take long for Dean to realise his mistake; he has to stop and wait for Sam every few minutes as his brother gets distracted by yet another bit of history. He has a feeling that if they weren’t busy sniping at each other, he’d be getting the full Sam-splanation of every single one. The worst is a statue on the riverside - Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Civil Engineer, looming over London for eternity. He can imagine how much mind-numbingly boring, useless information Sam might know about a famous civil engineer. At least arguing had some benefits. 

He’s sticky and hot by the time they reach the Savoy, this time walking straight towards the gleaming doors with all the confidence they can muster. “Hey, they’re driving on the right side here!” Dean exclaims, shocked into talking. Sam ignores him.

Within a few moments, they’re ushered to a seat in the American bar, sitting side by side so they can keep an eye on the lobby, pressed as tightly together as always. Dean can see the bones in Sam’s knees through the ridiculous trousers, the outlines of his thigh muscles, and he’s finding it hard to keep his mind on Rowena. 

“Do we really think she’ll be here in the middle of the afternoon?” he asks, trying to focus.

“Does she strike you as a morning person?” 

Sam’s got a point. Rowena’s always thrived at nighttime, coming out of her shell towards the late evening when the lines around proper behaviour blur. 

They settle into silence, Sam sipping at a coffee, giant hands wrapped around a tiny, delicate cup; while Dean cradles one of the most expensive glasses of whisky he’s ever had. He wonders how long these fake cards will hold out; he can’t imagine that their cards being declined somewhere like this would lead to anything good. 

By the time it’s early evening, Dean’s worried they’re going to get kicked out for keeping the table for too long. He glances around surreptitiously; they’ve added overpriced nibbles to their tab but he’s worried it’s not enough to keep them at the bar. With dismay, he notices an elegantly-clad waiter approaching. 

“Can I bring you anything else?” the waiter asks, voice dripping with smarminess. 

“Another whiskey for me,” Dean says. Sam’s not paying attention, and Dean spots a chance to indulge in one of his favourite games. “What’ll you have, darling?”

Sam’s head whips around. “Uh,” he stutters. 

Dean smirks at him, winking out of sight of the waiter. “Excuse my husband,” he says. “We had a _wonderful_ night last night, and well, he can’t seem to think about anything else today.” 

Sam’s face goes so red Dean’s worried it might explode. “I’ll have a coffee,” he bites out. 

“Of course, sir,” the waiter replies, obsequious. He gives Sam an appreciative look up and down, eyes lowered, before smiling at Dean. It’s all Dean can do to smile back as jealousy roars through him. Hoist by his own petard, he thinks wryly. 

Sam’s had two more coffees, leg jittering; and Dean one more whisky, and they are both thinking of giving up, before they catch a break. It’s late, so late the sky has darkened outside and the clientele has changed from a well-heeled daytime crowd to a more raucous group of businessmen and their suspiciously young girlfriends. Dean’s idly looking at the bar, checking off the whisky bottles against his own mental bucket list, when Sam’s knee jerks violently against his. “Dean,” Sam hisses, unncessarily. 

Rowena’s sweeping through reception as if she owns the hotel, dressed in a black pantsuit and a dark blue coat, a butler trailing behind her and what looks like a senior manager keeping pace. If Dean had to guess, he’d say she was making a complaint. She has that haughty air he associates sometimes with his own belief that the best defense is a good offense. She pauses by the front desk, giving the hotel a quick sweep that suggests she’s well aware she might be under surveillance. Their new outfits are clearly enough of a disguise; her gaze rakes across them without recognition, although Sam stiffens up next to him, before she’s out of the door. 

“Quick, you pay and I’ll follow,” Sam says, and it’s only when he’s gone that Dean realises he’s been left with the outrageous bill. It’s not his money, of course; but that’s not the point. He still feels like he’s been played. 

Sam’s waiting for him outside, as far into the shadows as he can manage. “She got in a taxi,” he says. “One of the fancy black ones. But I got the number plate so we can track it.” 

“We don’t have time for you to hack in, not if she’s going to find the amulet now.”

“I already hacked into the cameras. When you were busy preening earlier.” 

“I was not preening!”

“Dean, you were in that changing room twice as long as I was.”

Dean glares, but he’s also mesmerised by the look of glee in Sam’s eyes. “We don’t have time for this,” he repeats. “And what if she’s already got it upstairs?” 

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ok, you go check out her room. I’ll follow her and let you know where we are. Don’t take too long.”

“I’ll follow her.” That’s the more dangerous option, so it’s the one Dean will be taking. 

“Don’t be stupid, Dean. Rowena’s not going to hurt me. She knows I’m the one who kills her eventually.” There’s enough sadness in Sam’s voice that it gives Dean pause, even hidden as it is under exasperation. It’s also a strong argument: their relationship with Rowena is unique, thanks to Billie’s tidbit about the future. 

“Ok,” he agrees reluctantly. “But if you do anything stupid before I get there I’ll kick your ass.” 

“I’d like to see you try,” Sam says, sassy as fuck, and then he’s in a cab and off before Dean can respond. 

***

Dean doesn’t find anything in Rowena’s suite except for the widest array of beauty products he’s ever seen and more luxury than any person should ever need. “What the fuck even is this,” he mutters, flicking at the abundance of cushions and coughing when he sprays of the complimentary bottles. He rifles around in the seperate bedroom, looking for any hint of the amulet or even a hiding place, but there’s nothing apart from endless clothes and boxes of cosmetics. 

Growling, he pulls out his phone to text Sam. 

“Nothing. Where are you?”

“St Bride’s, Fleet Street.”

A quick glance at google maps shows that Dean’s not far; he hurries out of the hotel, settling confidence around him in his new clothes. 

Sam’s standing outside the Church when he arrives. “It took you all this time to get here?” Dean asks.

“I think she knows she’s being followed. Her taxi drove around for ages before it got here.” 

“Damn. I wish we had all our stuff.” 

“I know.”

They’d collected some supplies from a contact of Garth’s when they arrived early that morning, but it didn’t compare to the arsenal they kept in the truck, or the range of ingredients they had to hand in the Bunker. “I’m struggling to even find you this much,” Garth had told them. “You guys wiped out all my contacts.”

There’s a gun tucked securely into the waistband of Dean’s fancy new trousers, and a few charms and silver bullets safe in his pocket, but Garth’s contact hadn’t provided any witch killing bullets, and it’s making Dean nervous. He has no desire to kill Rowena - not least because he knows he can’t - but having the option would be nice. 

“She definitely still in there?” 

“There’s this one entrance that’s open,” Sam says. “I suppose she could blast her way out of one of the others - but I reckon she wants to be subtle.”

“It doesn’t look that old. Are you sure she hasn’t given you the slip?” 

Sam glares at him. “No,” he replies shortly. “And besides, this isn’t that old, only 1700s, but it’s built on the site of a church from the dark ages. And _that_ was built on the site of an old Roman building.” 

“Well ok then,” Dean agrees. He’s still having trouble with the concept of things being hundreds of years old, let alone thousands. “Lets go.” 

Sam picks the lock, Dean keeping an eye on the street behind them; but at this time of night this the road is quiet. They creep inside, Sam not quite shutting the door behind them, pausing to try and give their eyes time to adjust. There’s so much light pollution in London they don’t need torches; once a moment has passed, Dean finds he can see where he’s going just fine. It’s a far cry from their normal hunts in the middle of nowhere. 

There’s no sign of Rowena as the slip down the nave towards the altar. Sam gestures with hand for Dean to take one of the sides while Sam takes the other; Dean hates splitting up but it makes sense. He peers around the pews and into the corridor he passes, but there’s no sign that anyone is present. He and Sam meet underneath the stained glass window behind the altar; a quick shrug says Sam was equally unsuccessful.

“Ok,” Sam whispers, close enough to Dean’s ear that his lip catches on the shell. Dean manages not to shudder. “There’s a crypt, that’s where the Roman stuff is and if the amulet is hidden anywhere, it’s probably there.” Sam gestures towards the left of the church. “Down there.” 

There’s no visible entrance, which means if Rowena is down there, she’s locked herself in. One of the benefits of witchcraft, Dean supposes; being able to unlock impossible doors. 

The torch on Sam’s phone shows them a trapdoor set into the floor, the handle shiny with frequent use and the hinges well oiled. At least that hopefully means no spiders. It’s a dark, gaping hole once they get it open, the torch extinguished to maintain the element of surprise. Dean feels about with his feet until he finds stairs; they’re rough, uneven stone, but infinitely preferable to a ladder. 

He gestures at Sam in the language drilled into them as children. “Follow me, slowly,” his hands tell Sam, and his brother nods in understanding. Taking a deep breath, Dean makes his way into the earth. 

There’s no light for a long way; he keeps one hand on the wall and the other outstretched, his feet doing the hard work of searching out steps. He hits firm ground, and reaches up, testing how high the ceiling is above him. It’s not great - he can reach it easily, a foot or so above his head. Dean’s not bothered by small spaces, but he’s always aware of the environment he might have to fight in. 

Within a couple of seconds, Sam’s pressed against his back as he too hits solid ground. Silently, Dean makes his way forward, Sam’s hand warm on his shoulder. 

It’s slow going, and there’s no sign anyone is here. Dean’s worried Rowena had outsmarted his brother when he realises he can just about see his outstretched hand in a dim blue light that gets stronger with every step forward he takes. There’s nothing natural about it, evidenced by the fact that all the hairs on his arms and neck are standing at attention, and the squeeze to his shoulder lets him know Sam has felt it too. 

Taking a deep breath, he continues forward, Sam still tight behind him. They round a corner, feet silent on the stone, and the passage opens out into a bigger space, lit a deep blue. The walls are old and crumbling; faded sculptures illegible after the passage of time, and the rough ceiling crowds down on them, the air clammy. 

Rowena stands in the middle of the space, the blue light emanating from the space between her hands. Her spine is straight, her hair wild around her shoulders, pulsing in the light. Dean pauses in the entrance, Sam a hot line against his back, his face over Dean’s shoulder as they both watch. They know the drill - the best option here is to let Rowena find the amulet, take it from her and destroy it. Without her, they’ve got no chance of finding something hidden for centuries. 

“Oh Blessed Bride,” she intones. “Blessed Bridget. Blessed Brigantia.” There’s a slight hint of irritation underlying her otherwise respectful tone; Dean’s had that annoyance directed at him far too many times not to recognise it. 

“Blessed Brigantia, Goddess of Victory. Show me where your power lies. Let this woman be as powerful in victory now as you were in your prime.” 

The feminist angle, Dean thinks with an eye roll. She’s going for the feminist angle. His experience is that Goddesses are usually too bloodthirsty to feel kinship with humans, even in the face of a common enemy. 

The blue light doesn’t waver; there’s no sign anything has changed at all. Rowena huffs, turning to direct the blue light elsewhere. It flows out from her fingers, crawling over the walls and oozing into the crannies. Rowena directs it around the cave, rattling through the skeletons of the Romans and Britons buried on ancient ground, but the light remains steady. 

“Powerful, beautiful, victorious Brigantia. Brigantia who survived Christianity, who became other, who retained her victory, her power. Show me where your power lies.” 

The light gets closer and closer to the entrance, and Sam pulls Dean back in time, as it sweeps past the opening. It catches on Dean’s arm, tickling across already sensitive skin, but there’s no sign that Rowena has noticed their presence, and it flows on, completing a full circuit of the crypt before retreating to Rowena’s upheld hands. It flickers out, plunging them into darkness.

“For fucks sake,” Rowena mutters, deep in the blackness of the cave. 

There’s a rush of power that has Dean almost floating, feeling like his feet have left the floor. Sam’s hand tightens wildly on his shoulder, clinging; and the room is lit again, brighter than before. Rowena’s voice roars out. “Brigantia, Goddess of Victory. I command thee - show me your power.” 

There’s a ringing silence. Dean holds his breath, anticipation coiling in his gut. 

“Insect. Ant. Worm.” The voice booms around the chamber, so deep dust falls from the cracks in the ceiling; and it gets more disdainful with each insult. “You dare to wake me. After all these years. Worm.” 

It’s vaguely feminine, the rumble shaking the floor. Rowena doesn’t seem cowed, she stands straighter, lit by the dim blue of her last burst of power. 

“Blessed Brigantia,” she starts, “I seek to harness your power, to bring you back to the world, to-”

“You wake me for your own greed.” Dean assumes the voice belongs to Brigantia, although there is no sign of a presence. “You seek to deceive me, to steal my power.”

“No,” Rowena assures hurriedly. “I would worship you-” 

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Dean almost snorts with laughter. As if. Seems Brigantia already has a pretty good read on Rowena. 

“Stop. You have woken me. I have no desire to be a part of this world, now they have been so victorious.” Dean wonders who she’s referring to, but the crosses trembling on the walls are answer enough. “Go, before I rip you into quarters and feed you your own limbs. Be thankful I have no desire to call attention to myself.”

“I seek only your amulet,” Rowena says, voice unwavering. Dean has to give her props for stubborness. “You clearly have no need for it, if you have retreated from the world.”

“Worm.” A crack forms in the wall, feet away from Rowena. “I should kill you for your insolence. But I think it better that you live with the knowledge of your failure.” There’s a bitter laugh. “It’s gone. They took it from me, when I was Bride. They took it back to their country, to dull my power, as they did to us all. So your quest is for naught. You have failed, as I did.”

Rowena looks livid. “You lost it?” 

“It was taken.” The stones rattle. “It is gone. As should you be. I am not powerless yet.” 

Rowena takes a step backwards, the first sign she might even be the littlest bit cowed. Her feet move backwards, slowly, and Dean realises she’s pushing against something, being forced. The rumbling grows louder, Rowena’s blue light wavering. “Time to go,” Sam mutters. Dean couldn’t agree more, but he’s fascinated, watching Rowena push back against the power of a Goddess. She’s losing, though; retreating backwards step by step towards the doorway he and Sam occupy. 

“Come on.” Sam wrenches as his shoulder, but it’s too late. Rowena is a step away and she’s spun around, pushed towards them.

“Fucking Winchesters,” she mutters. “You couldn’t just fuck off quietly and I could’ve pretended I didn’t see you.” 

It’s Dean’s turn to back away; aware the odds are far more even than he’d like with their paltry array of weapons.

“Begone, Worm.” It’s a final shriek, catapulting Rowena out of the doorway; she collides with Dean and all three of them tumble to the ground. 

Rowena lands on top, and she’s on her feet before Dean can sort his limbs from Sam’s. 

“Sorry to do this again, boys, but you really should stop following me.”

There’s a flash, green this time; and then darkness.

****

Dean and Sam make their way back to their hotel, disheartened. On the one hand, Rowena doesn’t have the amulet; whatever havoc she wants to wreak with it cannot yet be achieved. But on the other, Brigantia had made it clear it hadn’t been destroyed, merely moved somewhere else; and more importantly, Rowena had gotten the jump on them again. Dean burns with shame; he hates losing once, but losing twice makes him a fool.

He follows Sam wearily through down the long, theatre-lined street, flashing show signs winking obnoxiously above them as buses rattle past, moving far faster than during the day. It’s late enough that theatre-goers are long gone and the only other people are either rowdy drunks or people bedding down for the night in shop doorways. He’s shocked at the number of people sleeping rough; not since they’d visited the homeless encampment looking for Metatron has he seen so many homeless people in one place. 

Their hotel is quiet, the night receptionist slumped in her chair, one eye on her ipad. She waves them past when they show their keycards, and they take the stairs slowly, Sam’s knees brushing the backs of his legs as they climb.

Dean fumbles with the door, cursing the fact that keycards never work on the first try. All he wants is to shower, press a cold compress to the bump on his head, and get some sleep.

“I can’t wait to get these damn pants off,” Sam murmurs behind him. “I feel like they’re cutting off my circulation.”

Dean’s breath catches at the thought of Sam taking his pants off, but he knows his brother means nothing by it; Dean’s too tired to enact his usual barriers. 

The door clicks open and Dean stumbles inside, on a mission to secure the first shower. He’s stopped in his tracks by the man sitting on his bed. 

“The Winchesters, I presume?”

Dean’s got his gun out and trained, Sam a steady presence at his shoulder. The man’s eyes flickers between the two guns, disdainful. 

“Please put those away. We actually have rules about using guns in this country.” He’s clearly British, but Dean can’t place his accent; it’s neither Ketch’s plummy tones or Mick’s twang, but it is clearly contemptuous. “I’m here to talk, but I find it easier to communicate without the firearms.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Sam asks, while Dean keeps his focus on the target. “And what the fuck are you doing in our room?”

“You really are like they say, aren’t you? Trigger happy. And co-dependent.”

Dean narrows his eyes. The guy is talking himself into an early grave. “Talk. Or die.”

Their visitor rolls his eyes, a gesture so dramatic Dean wants to echo it. “Assan Shah. British Men of Letters. Or at least, I was until you took out our whole command structure.” 

Dean’s mind blanks at the sheer nerve of the man, so calmly identifying himself as part of the organisation that had tried to kill them and their friends, and raped his little brother. “Give me one good reason not to shoot you,” he growls. 

“Rowena? Brigantia? That ring any bells? Do you actually accept help or are you too stubborn?”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand, using the other to keep his gun up. 

“What, you think you have intel we don’t?” Sam asks, scoffing. 

“I don’t think, I know. But as I said, I don’t talk when there are guns pointed at me. Put them down and I’ll tell you want I know; if I do anything terrible you can kill me with the knives in your boots.”

Dean glares, but after the night they’ve had, they’re desperate for information on what Rowena might do next. He turns, so he can see Sam out of the corner of his eye. A flick of his eyes, a raised eyebrow from Sam and a turn of his mouth and they’ve decided; they lower their guns in unison.

“Speak.”

“You’re looking for the second half of the amulet of Brigantia, the witch Rowena wants it - I don’t know what for. She thought it was here in London, but you all found out tonight that it is not, it was taken from here long ago.”

“Yeah, and?” Dean replies. 

“It’s in Rome,” Sam says, startling him. “You’re gonna need more than that to convince us.”

Dean has no idea where Sam got the idea of Rome from; they hadn’t talked about the amulet on the way home. But Assan looks mildly impressed. 

“Well, you’re at least a little bit as smart as they give you credit for. But Rome’s a big city, with thousands of ancient sites; you could search forever.”

“We’ll follow Rowena, like we did here. I assume it’s in the Vatican, anyway.” Sam’s as offhand as Assan, trying to keep their interest moderate.

“Or you could cut her out and go straight to the amulet.” 

“We could, if you would actually give us the information.” Dean’s losing his patience. He’s a simple man, with simple needs: he wants his shower, he wants to see Sam take his pants off, and he wants to sleep. He does not want to bandy words with a member of a defunct group of their enemies. 

“So impatient. You’ve barely put the guns away. It’s not in the Vatican; it was, but it was hidden somewhere less obvious a couple of hundred years ago. It’s in the Non-Catholic Cemetery, outside of the city centre. It’s hidden in the grave next to Shelley, masked with magic.”

“How do you know all this?” Sam asks, suspicious. 

“It was my job to know things like this. I was in intelligence. We’ve known where this half of the amulet was for centuries; but without the first half, it was useless, so we left it where it was.”

“But now Rowena’s found the first half.” 

“Indeed. So considering I have no operatives to inform anymore, as you killed them all,” an undercurrent of steel seeps into Assan’s voice, “I thought you two lumbering, trigger happy wankers could do something useful and destroy the second half before she finds it.”

Dean stares at him. He’s awfully mouthy for someone effectively being held at gunpoint, even if those guns are hidden for the moment. 

“Right. Well, I assume that you will actually be doing something about this; don’t fuck it up. It was nice to meet the legendary, villainous Winchester brothers in the flesh, but I have to go.”

“Villainous?” Dean sputters, ready to give this fool a lengthy, graphic explanation of why his colleagues had deserved to die. Sam’s hand on his shoulder restrains him.

“Thank you. Assuming you’re not lying, of course.”

“Not lying. I have nothing to gain from it, and we all lose if that amulet is fixed.” 

Sam’s hand squeezes his shoulder as his brother nods. “Yes, we do. Since you’re here…” Sam pauses briefly. “Since you’re here, where can we buy supplies? Where are the hunter places? We need ingredients for witch killing bullets, and a bunch of other stuff.” 

Assan’s face twists, and he laugh bitterly. “You are joking, right?” When Sam doesn’t reply, he continues. “There are no more hunter supply shops. There are no more hunters. There are one or two of us Men of Letters left; mostly intel people, like me, who weren’t needed for the trip to the States. We’re not trained to fight, or to take down monsters, and so for the first time in centuries, there’s no one keeping the monsters out of this country. That’s why you’re villainous; that’s what you achieved.” 

Dean stares at him, aghast. He’d never thought about the consequences of ending the British Men of Letters. 

Assan stands and walks towards the doors. “As I said, nice to see what the legends are made of.” He pushes past them, Sam as stupefied as Dean, and leaves, the door slamming heavy behind him.

Dropping his gun on the bed, Dean makes his way to the bathroom. He feels like he needs that shower more than ever.

***

They’re both quiet the next morning, but it doesn’t stop them having a furious argument about the best way to travel to Rome. 

“We are not driving, Dean.”

“I’m not getting on another plane. We still have to fly back home, I’m not getting on one before that.” 

“We’re not driving, it’ll take days, and by the time we get there Rowena will already have the amulet and then god knows what will happen.”

“It’s an eighteen hour drive, we’ve done worse.”

“Eighteen hours plus borders and bad weather and what the fuck else, and we have no car, we’d have to hire one, and I don’t even know how that would work, taking it across all those countries, and we’d need to stop to sleep somewhere too, we’re both exhausted. We are not driving, Dean.”

“I’m not getting on a plane.”

“It’s a two hour flight. Take one of those pills again, and you can cuddle up to me like you did on the way here, and you’ll be there before you know it.”

Dean is unbelievably offended. “I did not cuddle up to you. And I’m not flying again.”

Sam’s mouth twitches. “I’m sorry, Dean, but you cuddled into me for about five hours. You drooled on my chest. And it’s a two hour flight or a two day journey; if we don’t fly, we lose this.”

Dean’s eventually forced to admit Sam is right, but it doesn’t mean he has to be nice about it. He refuses to talk to Sam all the way to the airport, even when Sam gives him another pill; and he’s determined to maintain his silence and distance throughout the short flight. 

When he arrives in Rome, he’s unpleasantly sure somewhere during the flight he’d broken that resolve, but everything is too unclear to remember where. He curses the fact he’s still too woozy to remember, even as he allows Sam’s hand on his arm to guide him out of the airport and into a taxi. It feels nice, to have Sam’s hands on him; it reminds him of those days he doesn’t think about, that short time when he’d had this; and worse, of the time when he thought he might get it back. He doesn’t normally think about those times, but now, with his defenses down and Sam’s knee pressed against his, he drifts in a taxi through the eternal city and wonders what it might be like to have it again. 

***

Rome is a totally different thing. Within an hour of reaching their hotel, they’re shaking hands with a dapper, smiling middleman; joyous at the size of his sale. 

“Feels good to have the right gear again,” Dean says, gazing at their haul. 

“It really does.”

They load it into their new hire car; it’s so small Sam’s knees are up around his shoulders. “How do people live like this?” Sam asks, despondent. 

Dean cackles. “Not their fault you’re not normal.” He wouldn’t change Sam’s legs for the world, but Sam doesn’t need to know that. 

This time, they’re staying in a small hotel, south of the river in Trastavere. The size of the car is quickly useful as they drive through tiny, twisting streets; there are cars parked everywhere, crammed into tiny spaces and perched on corners, and the Impala would never fit. Sam’s nose presses against the window as he stares out, eyes trained on crumbling stone and trailing flowers as they trundle past trickling fountains in cobbled squares. Even Dean can barely keep his eyes on the road, distracted at every turn by yet another outdoor restaurant serving delicious pizza, or by the dazzling array of flavours on display in countless ice cream shops, or the lingering smell of garlic wafting from dark, enticing bars. 

Their hotel is tucked into an old building, the door so small Sam’s shoulders brush against both sides as they enter. The hotel clerk, a smiling older woman, gives them a quick look up and down. “Romantic weekend away?” she asks, although it’s clear she’s not really asking a question. “I can tell you all the most romantic spots.”

Sam sputters, and Dean wonders (not for the first time) how he’s never learnt to deal with people making assumptions about them. They’re two good looking men sharing a room in a romantic city; he’d be offended if the clerk didn’t think they were having a dirty weekend away.

“Non, grazie,” he says, keen to show off this little bit of Italian he’s learnt on his way to the hotel. “We’re colleagues.” 

The lady looks at Sam’s red face. “Well, there is always a chance,” she says, pragmatically.

“He’s a bit of a prude,” Dean says in a stage whisper, gesturing at Sam as Sam heads rapidly for the stairs, clearly desperate to extract himself from this conversation. 

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.” The lady is winking at them and Dean’s torn between howling with laughter and giving in to the sadness these jokes always evoke. It’s been a long time since he thought there could be something more with Sam, but it never ceases to hurt. 

Once they reach their room, which is a little crowded and stuffy but full of character, Sam turns to him. “You’re such a shit,” he says. 

“What?” Dean says, mock innocent. “You are a prude.” 

He dodges the pillow thrown at him easily. “So Rowena won’t be out and about until tonight; she can’t risk doing anything in daylight. Wanna head out and do some sightseeing?”

As he’d expected, Sam’s face lights up. “Can we go to the Colosseum? The Vatican? The Trevi Fountain? The Forum?” 

Dean can’t help but smile. Sam’s enthusiasm is always infectious, even if he knows he’s going to regret the offer as soon as Sam starts telling him the detailed political history of ancient Rome. 

“Sure, geekboy,” he says. “Whatever floats your boat.”

***

Dean’s hot, sweaty and sick to death of crowds and queues, but he still can’t keep the smile off his face. Sam’s having the time of his life. 

They’d been to see the Colosseum earlier, Sam exclaiming in delight at seeing something so old but still so clearly visible. Their guide had told them stories of famous gladiators, fighting battles and earning gold and women; even Dean had enjoyed that bit. 

They’d taken one look at the queue for the Vatican, stretching halfway around the walls of the famous city, and agreed it wasn’t worth the wait. Dean’s never coped well with a disappointed Sammy, which is how he finds himself rushing through narrow, cobbled streets, bouncing between all the different churches that “Just have the most amazing art, Dean;tiny little churches everywhere with famous art in them!” Dean has no interest in religious art; he’s met too many of the main players to have any awe left at all. But Sam’s happy, so Dean takes a deep breath and prepares to enter yet another dark, dusty church; promising himself a huge gelato once they’re back in the sunlight.

They walk back to Trastavere later that evening, meandering through the streets as they approach the Tiber, dodging tables and bikes and loose cobbles. Sam’s quieter, less intense; he seems to have gotten his fill of art and is content to soak up the age of the streets, head swivelling on his shoulders as his eyes dart from building to building, balcony to balcony, his eyes following the trailing flowers across the walls. Dean’s not interested in the architecture; he’s more concerned with the smile on Sam’s face, the looseness of his shoulders and the easy way Sam’s arm brushes against his as they walk. 

They’ve seen couples all day, entwined around each other as they make their way to Rome’s sights; posing side by side, lip to cheek in front of ancient monuments. Despite the chaos of the main sites, there’s a softness to some of Rome’s streets that invites hand holding, or pausing underneath an overhang to steal a kiss.

Dean tries to convince himself the melancholy this evokes is a general sadness about his solo state in life; the old feeling he’d had when he left Lisa, knowing he was giving up his one chance for normality. He could be in Rome with a pretty girl, arm wrapped around her waist; maybe a couple of kids in tow or safely back at home with the in-laws, the only thought in his head finding a suitably romantic restaurant for the evening. He doesn’t want that life, but sometimes he’s overcome with desire for the simplicity of it.

But deep down he knows what he’s feeling today has nothing to do with the lack of a beautiful woman tucked into his side. It’s all about his old feelings for Sam; those thoughts that resurface with glee every time he thinks them conquered. Memories of that one week, when he’d hoped Sam’s desperate, searching kisses could keep him from hell; years later, his promise in a small, dirty church, when he’d thought that maybe, just maybe, they could reclaim what they’d had. It had all gone to shit, though, both times; and Dean had convinced himself to never take the risk again. What they’ve got is more than most people ever have; it has to be enough. 

The sun is setting when they reach the tree-lined river; a golden ball glowing over the dome of St Peter’s. Sam stops in the middle of the Ponte Sisto, silhouetted against the sunset, exposing every bit of beauty in his profile. Dean’s breath catches as he approaches, time slowing. 

Their eyes catch, Sam looking at Dean through his lashes. He’s leant back against the side of the bridge, legs spread wide to be on Dean’s level and the breeze tickling his hair. 

_If there was ever a moment_ , Dean thinks inanely. There’s a million reasons why this is a bad idea, but all he can think of is how Sam’s lips had tasted on his, during that brief time when he’d been allowed to kiss them. He moves forward slowly, giving Sam time to move, to signal reluctance in any way; but Sam stays still, shadowed eyes locked on Dean’s face. There’s a fine tremble running through Dean, trickling down to the fingers itching to cup Sam’s face. He stops within touching distance, eyes locked on Sam’s lips, gathering his courage. 

The trill of his phone alarm stops him, ringing out into the silence around them. Dean had set the alarm before they’d left the hotel, a reminder for the absolute latest they could be out before going to find Rowena. 

Sam startles, turning away to face the river. “I guess we’d better head towards the cemetery,” he says. 

“Yeah.”

Dean spares one last look at the glimmer of sunset on the water, before striding purposefully back towards the hotel.

*******

They’re silent in their little car, knees pressed together not from familiarity but from lack of space. Sam speaks to give directions, navigating them seamlessly through the twisting streets of Rome and back across the river, until they hit a wide boulevard. Darkness has hit with a vengeance, Rome’s night coming to life around them as restaurants open and tables fill. 

They take a final turn down a quiet, tree-lined avenue that runs by the side of a park. Slipping into a space, they hop out and examine their new arsenal. Dean puts a gun that’s not his into his waistband, cursing the absence of his Colt; and loads his pockets with bullets, both ordinary and witch killing. Given where they’re heading, he pops in a couple of salt rounds as well. They’re not expecting any demons, but he still wishes they had the knife; their contact had been good enough to provide a couple of angel blades, and he hides one of those in his jacket as well. 

The cemetery is quiet when they enter, hopping over the walls with minimal fuss. 

It’s crowded, gravestones huddled together, shiny smooth marble next to crumbling stone. Ivy crowds some spots, while others are cared-for, new plants in pretty pots jostling older offerings. Rows spread out around them; it’s not huge but it’s big enough. 

Dean flicks on the light on his phone, a softer glow than a torch would be, and steps closer to Sam. “How’re we gonna find the right grave?” he whispers, breath tickling across Sam’s face. 

“It’s next to a famous one,” Sam points out, breath tickling right back. “Surely it can’t be that hard?” 

It doesn’t take them too long to find the little signposts littered around the cemetery.

“Ok, Shelley, this way,” Sam says, a hint of geeky awe in his voice.

“Put your poet-boner away,” Dean hisses. “We’ve got work to do.”

When they find the grave, it’s nothing remarkable; one more in a row of decaying stones at the back of the cemetery. But Assan had been certain; so they hide themselves in the bushes to wait for Rowena. Dean’s crouched in front, of course; and Sam’s a long, warm weight against his back, every inhale pressing his chest against Dean. His smell wraps around Dean, accented by the greenery around them and the familiar odour of wet earth; a scent burnt into Dean’s bones.

Dean clenches his fists, and hopes Rowena gets here soon. 

***

It almost takes longer than Dean can bear. 

The sound of a car, the first they’ve heard in ages, breaks the silence. Sam’s fingers clench on Dean’s shoulder, his blunt nails digging in; but that’s the only movement either of them make, holding their breaths as they wait to see if this is it.

The airs shimmers, the disturbance visible in the dark, before the gate is outlined faintly in red, swinging open gently. Rowena steps through, the light briefly catching on her hair, as if she is aflame, before it flickers out as the door closes behind her. 

The absolute silence of the cemetery allows them to hear the patter of her tiny feet as she makes her way unerringly along the paths, not stubling in the darkness. She knows where she’s going, Dean realises; she’s moving without hesitation, heading straight towards them. He shifts minutely, enough for the gun in his waistband to dig in, so he’s reassured it’s still there; he feels Sam do the same behind him, a tiny wave of motion running through them both. 

The crunch of gravel gets nearer, before a ball of light appears in the air before them, temporarily blinding Dean. Once his eyes have recovered, he realises the ball barely illuminates the space around them, giving him enough light to see Rowena’s silhouette, trailing her as she approaches Shelley’s grave. 

Once she reaches it, she steps to the side without hesitation, so she’s directly in front of the grave Assan had told them about. Dean braces for the blue light and invocations he’d suffered through last time, his eyes poised to roll with exasperation, but to his surprise Rowena takes a different approach. 

Leaning forwards, she whispers towards the grave, face intent. Dean can’t hear what she’s saying but he’s sure it’s not English; Rowena’s voice a quiet susurration that seeks to seduce the amulet from hiding. 

Sam’s leaning closely into him in his desperation to hear, so much that Dean’s struggling to keep his balance. Rowena’s voice doesn’t change in volume, but the invocation seems to get louder all the same, or maybe it’s the power Dean can feel swirling around them, all the hairs on his arms standing up and the plants seeming to reach towards Rowena. Sam’s pressed entirely to his back now, their faces so close Dean can feel his stubble scraping over his brother’s smooth skin as Sam’s hand snakes around his waist to keep them balanced. A branch scrapes along Dean’s other side, sneaking towards Rowena, the bush they’re hiding in rustling in it’s attempt to get closer, even the earth seeming to shift under their feet. 

Dean has no idea what Rowena’s doing, what magic she’s calling up, but there’s no doubt about the power she can wield, the whole cemetery seeming to strain towards where she stands, the eye of the storm. Sam’s heart pounds against his back, his fingers clutching reflexively over Dean’s heart. “Dean,” Sam breathes, jerking his chin towards the grave.

The earth at Rowena’s feet is churning, coming loose and dislodging the marble slabs surrounding the grave. Dean shudders as a hand appears from the earth, glittery-white bones stretching towards Rowena, followed by an arm. The flesh is completely gone from them, nothing but magic holding them together; and the earth heaves again as the top of a shiny skull emerges. 

Dean’s no stranger to skeletons, and he’s seen the dead rise more times than he’d like; but there’s something especially unpleasant about this. The bones rise bit by bit, jerking through the ground, held together by invisible strings. Rowena stands impassive in front, hands raised and eyes locked on the skeleton, still whispering her magic. 

The second arm is, somehow, the last part to pull free of the earth; but when the finger-bones shake free of the mud around them, the reason is clear. The hand is closed tight around something; holding firm as every other part of the skeleton leans towards the witch in front of it. 

As soon as the hand is visible, the tone of Rowena’s magic changes. Even though her voice remains a murmur, the intensity decreases; the plants around them settling, poised, as if waiting for further instruction. 

“Thoir dhomh e.” Rowena’s words are loud and clear, although Dean doesn’t have a clue what they mean. The skeleton shivers in front of her. “Thoir dhomh e a-nis.” Dean watches, heart in his mouth, as the skeleton’s hand rises, jerkily, before dropping back down again.

Rowena’s mouth hardens, her brows drawing together. 

“Tha mi ag iarraidh ort an comharra a thoirt dhomh!” This time, her voice is infused with command, power whipping around the cemetery in a rush that has branches waving and the earth quaking. The skeleton’s arm lifts, slowly; as if pushing against something else, but the arm fully extends towards Rowena. There’s a lull, as the skeleton and the witch both move, arms outstretched across the grave and backlit by the still-glowing ball; and then with a clacking shudder, the skeleton opens its hand and something drops into Rowena’s open palm. 

The impact is immediate. The power around them ends with an abruptness that sends Dean dropping back onto Sam, knocking them both onto their asses, the invisible barrier they’d been pushing against gone. The plants around them return to normal, the branches still beside them and the earth settles, quiescent. 

“Now,” Sam hisses, pushing Dean off him, and they both roll to their feet, reaching for their guns. But the distraction costs them; before they can move, the cemetery lights up. 

“Drop the amulet.” The voice rings out from the trees behind Rowena, and Dean watches in astonishment as three robed figures step out into the newly-lit cemetery. 

“Drop the amulet, and we will let you live,” the middle figure intones, the light Italian accent doing nothing to detract from the toneless delivery emanating from the dark under the robe’s hood.

Rowena seems caught off-guard; but she recovers quickly. “Oh, yes,” she says, voice dripping sarcasm. “Let me drop the priceless magical artifact here for you. I’ve no need for it anyway.”

“Drop the amulet,” the figure says again, all three advancing towards Rowena. 

“And who are you to be giving me orders?” Rowena demands. Dean wonders exactly the same thing. He stands poised, his shoulder brushing Sam’s, both of them unsure what to make of this new development, and Dean half expects the robed figures to repeat the same line yet again. 

“We are the protectors of Italy. We protect our country from those such as you, who would seek to destroy it.” 

“Oh well then,” Rowena says, voice wheedling, “Then we’ve nothing to bother about. I mean no harm to Italy, it’s a beautiful country. Wonderful food, beautiful men, and the fashion…” she trails off. “So you’ll see, we have no quibble with each other. I’ll take the amulet back to the new world, and it’ll never bother you again. Everybody wins.”

Dean spares a moment to admire the sheer arrogance of her. No one could ever accuse Rowena of not believing in herself. 

“We protect Italy and the world from people such as you. There were many ancient evils brought to this country, which would do harm to others. I will not say it again - drop the amulet.”

Rowena laughs. “No,” she says, firm and final. “Goodbye.”

Light flashes around the cemetery, hurtling towards the three figures as Rowena steps backwards, towards the gate. The figures barely flinch, and the light stops dead, dissolving in front of them. 

“Do you think us that weak?” A second voice asks, this time decisively male where the first was gender-less. The figure to the left raises his hand, and blue light flows from him, targeting Rowena. She raises both hands, this time, and the blue light stops, flickering between her palms before it disappears. 

“Ah, so we’re going to play?” she asks, flirtatiously. 

The cemetery is alight, multi-coloured beams of light flashing in a dizzying dance. Sam pulls Dean back, further into the cover of the trees; this is out of their league, unless they want to kill all the witches. 

Rowena holds her own, sending pulse after pulse of power towards her assailants; but even she cannot hold out against three other witches. Two of them circle her, forcing her to split her focus, while the first remains in front, sending spell after spell towards her in a never ending wave. 

Dean’s heart is in his mouth as he watches; he certainly doesn’t want Rowena to access the power of the amulet, but he doesn’t want her dead either. Sam must feel the same way, judging by his crushing grip on Dean’s hand and his muttered curses every time Rowena falters. 

An enormous flash of red light sears through the air, making Dean’s eyes burn; when he opens them again, blinking furiously, Rowena is on the floor, her extravagant coat puddled around her. The three witches converge on her, arms raised, power crackling between them; and there’s no movement at all from Rowena. 

There’s a brush of air against Dean’s face. Sam steps out of their cover, gun raised.

“Leave her,” he insists. “Leave her or I’ll shoot.”

***

Dean feels his eyes almost roll out of his head in annoyance, but he’s got no choice in the matter. He steps out after Sam, gun trained steadily on the middle witch, while Sam’s flickers between the two at the sides. 

The only sound is Rowena’s harsh breathing at their feet.

“Guns?” The third figure asks, her decidedly feminine voice dripping with disdain.

“Witch killing bullets.” Sam’s jaw twitches as he talks. Dean forgets, sometimes, that Sam isn’t just his baby brother; he’s also a frighteningly capable hunter. 

The witches clearly pick up on that as well, taking a step back and drawing closer together. Foolish, really; it makes them an easier, more clumped target. 

“You can only kill one of us before you die,” the middle figure says, toneless. 

“Two,” Dean insists.

“You will still die.”

“How about this.” Sam’s voice is clipped, tight with tension. “No one dies. We destroy the amulet, and everyone goes home.”

“We do not trust you to destroy the amulet,” the woman says. “You are in league with this power-crazed fool.”

There’s an aborted, mocking laugh from Rowena, still on the ground; Sam speaks before Rowena gets the chance to say something so insulting that the option of a deal is ruined.

“We’re not working with her. We came here to destroy this; but no one has to die for something thousands of years old. We can all destroy it together.”

The three witches huddle, seemingly careless of the guns still pointed at them.

“Yes,” the middle one says eventually. “We accept. We will destroy the amulet.”

Dean releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Witch killing bullets or not, he hadn’t been thrilled with their odds. 

Sam takes a stride forwards, and Dean follows, tethered to his brother as always. “Rowena,” he says. “Give us the amulet.”

Rowena pouts at him. “You’re so cruel, Samuel,” she says. “I worked hard to find this.”

Sam gestures at her with the gun, clearly exasperated.

“Fine,” she huffs, and holds out her hand, the amulet dangling from a chain. Sam swipes it from her hand, and gives it a cursory glance.

“And the other half,” he adds. Rowena looks truly put out and Dean finds himself stifling a snort of laughter. This happens every time: she thinks she’s going to get one over on Sam and his frighteningly intelligent little brother proves her wrong. With a long suffering sigh, Rowena rifles in the pocket of her expensive coat, before handing over the other half of the amulet.

“Don’t connect them,” the female witch interjects sharply. Sam’s shoulders tense, and Dean can almost hear Sam’s irritated “Duh”, even though Sam manfully restrains himself.

“Yes, I got that, thank you,” he says instead; his snipped, bitchy tone sounding eerily like the soulless version Dean had endured for months. “Will burning it be enough?”

“Fire cleanses,” the middle says with an air of omnipotence that sets Dean’s teeth on edge. To make up for it, Dean squirts far more lighter fluid than needed onto the two halves of the amulet when Sam drops them on the ground. Sam shoots him a crooked, knowing grin that makes Dean’s heart flutter, and they both take a surreptitious step back before Dean drops the lit match.

Flames flare up, the same blue as the light in the crypt in London. Even Sam and Dean, prepared as they were, take an urgent step backwards; the middle witch squawks inelegantly and dives backwards, while the male witch falls over onto his ass. The woman, unflappable, simply holds her hand out in front of her body to shield herself with her magic. 

Rowena lets out a low keening noise. “You boring, unimaginative fools,” she hisses. “All that power, gone to waste.”

Dean’s heard this sob story from Rowena before; he’s got no fucks left to give. “C’mon, Sammy,” he says. “Let’s head back.” They turn away from the collection of witches in front of them, heading towards the cemetery gate.

“Winchesters.”

The female witch’s voice is loud and commanding, ringing out around the cemetery. Dean feels his heart sink; he’d hoped they were flying under the radar. 

They turn as one. “Yes?” 

“Take your pet witch with you. Get her out of our country.”

Dean’s about to argue, he really is, but he can’t be bothered. He’s not sure at what point he and Sam had assumed overall responsibility for Rowena - was it when Billie revealed her fate, or had it happened before? But there’s no doubt they have. 

“Fine,” he spits, as Sam hauls Rowena none too gently to her feet. 

“And Winchesters. Once you leave Italy, you are not welcome back. We will not stand for you to do to us what you did to our brethren in London.”

“You’re Men of Letters?” Sam asks, scoffing.

“Not quite,” the middle witch replies, voice still toneless. “We are a little more. But we are aligned, and we do not appreciate your past actions. We were willing to let you enter our country in search of the witch, but our hospitality does not extend to a second visit.”

“We’re just as keen to stay on our side of the pond, believe me,” Dean says, although that’s not true. He’s never been to anywhere that compares to Rome. 

“It doesn’t even compare to Paris, anyway,” Rowena says, pouring scorn into the words, from where Sam’s holding her tight. Sam gives her a little shake so she walks, and Dean hurries to catch up. 

He glances back as they leave the cemetery to see all three witches silhouetted by the still-burning fire, standing sentinel over the remains of the amulet and the grave it had crawled from. 

***

They put Rowena on a plane bound for New York the next day. 

“Don’t you witches fly home on a broomstick?” Dean asks, as they watch her check in.

“Don’t be facetious, Dean.” Rowena shoots him a look that could curdle milk; it has about as much effect on Dean as it does on the luggage carousel.

“Make sure you get on the plane, please,” Sam says, clearly tired of their bickering. “We’ll be checking up on you once we get back to the States.”

“And why aren’t you coming with me on this flight, Samuel? If you’re so concerned?” Rowena’s voice trails off, suggestive, as they reach the gate for security.

“I’m not going to New York,” Dean says sharply. “I hate it.”

“Or is there another reason you want to stay in the Eternal City?” 

Dean glares. “Our flight to Kansas City is tomorrow. We’ll call you when we land. Just get on the plane.”

She takes her hand luggage and smiles up at him, a slow, wicked smirk that ends with a wink. 

“Make sure you take advantage of one of the most romantic cities in the world, Dean,” she says. She’s past the security guard before Dean can think of a response. 

***

They go to the Pantheon that day, and to St Peter’s. Dean vetoes the queue for the Vatican, again; but he can’t hold out against Sam’s plaintive look towards the much shorter queue for the cathedral. It’s a long, sticky couple of hours while they wait, and an even hotter climb to the top of the dome, Sam bounding ahead with unbridled enthusiasm as Dean trudges behind him, muttering about what a sucker he is. 

It’s all worth it, though, when they get to the top and see Rome spread out before them, the long avenue of the Vatican disappearing into the crowded rooftops of Rome itself. Dean’s less interested in the view than in the enraptured look on Sam’s face, the wide, beaming smile he hardly ever sees and the way his brother darts from side to side on the viewing platform, determined to soak up the experience.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Dean?” Sam asks, gesturing towards the ancient castle nestled on the banks of the river. 

“Yes,” Dean agrees. “Beautiful.” He’s particularly entranced by the way the sunlight gleams off the trickle of sweat on Sam’s neck; Sam probably means something different but Dean can’t muster the willpower to look away. 

Sam turns around while Dean’s staring and their eyes catch for a long moment. Sam smiles, a softer version of the grin he’d had when he raced up the stairs; the corner of his mouth tipping up and his eyes filling with something that looks like a word Dean can’t say. They stand like that, caught in each other’s gaze, until a child crashes into Dean and nearly knocks him over.

“C’mon, Dean. Let’s head down,” Sam says, and as always, Dean follows.

***

Dusk has fallen by the time they make it back to the hotel, streetlights reflecting from the flowers climbing the walls and giving every doorway and alley an allure unthinkable in daylight hours.

Sam hops in the shower first, eager to sluice off a hot day of walking; and while he listens to the patter of shower drops Dean has time to rummage through his luggage, looking for something to wear that evening. Eyeing the final outfit they’d bought in London, he wonders; and then thinks, why not. When are they ever going to be in Rome again? When, in Kansas, will they ever need these clothes? Sam exits the shower wrapped in his towel, wet hair streaming down his skin; Dean brushes past him to get into the bathroom, trying desperately not to look. 

He takes longer than he should in the shower, trying to muster up the courage to wear the clothes, to make the effort. He stares at the suit jacket for a long time before sliding it on over the simple white shirt. Both fit him to perfection; they’re tight, but not so much he can’t move freely. Running a hand through his hair one last time, he leaves the bathroom, stomach fluttering. 

“Dean,” Sam says, looking dazed. Dean feels the same way; the grey tshirt stretched across his chest dips obscenely low underneath a tailored grey suit jacket, while his dark jeans appear moulded to his long legs. 

“I guess we both had the same idea?” Sam says, voice rough. 

“I feel stupid,” Dean says, trying for offhand. “But we spent good money on these clothes, might as well wear them.” He’s not sure he hits the right note, but it was worth a try. 

“You don’t look stupid,” Sam replies. To his absolute mortification, Dean feels his face flush. 

“Let’s go get some pizza,” he says, desperate to cover it. 

“Ok,” Sam says, giving him that same look from earlier. Dean still can’t cope with it, so he shoves his wallet into his back pocket and strides from the room. 

***

They meander through the darkening streets, both deciding to savour their last night in Rome without having to discuss it. Dean can’t remember the last time he walked this slowly, with so little purpose; the only pressure the slight grumbling of his stomach. Even when they’ve been sightseeing, it’s been marked by Sam’s enthusiasm and determination to cram as many of the wonders of Rome into the little time they have. But the museums and art galleries are closed, and Sam seems content to tread lazily through the alleys and squares of Trastavere, looking for that one perfect restaurant. 

They pass groups of students, laughing as they chug beers and wine clustered in doorways, and tourists tugging recalcitrant children behind them. Most frequent are the other pairs, couples wandering hand in hand or entwined, whispering secrets. Dean eyes them all with a mixture of hope and dread, pulling closer to Sam and away in an endless dance. 

Eventually Sam finds a restaurant that suits whatever internal criteria he’s been consulting. They take a seat at a table in a small sidestreet, one of four outdoor tables at the restaurant, none of which are occupied. Dean looks worriedly at the white tablecloth gleaming in front of him.

“Bit fancy, don’t you think?” 

Sam smiles gently at him, but Dean’s sure he sees a hint of nerves underneath.

“Gotta live up to the outfit,” he says. 

That’s Dean’s cue to remove his jacket; the night is still pleasantly warm and he doesn’t want to get food on one of the most expensive things he owns. The white shirt crinkles across his chest, straining the tiniest bit, and Dean frowns in annoyance, looking down at the buttons with worry.

“I hope these stupid buttons don’t pop,” he says, grumpy. 

“It’s fine,” Sam says, sounding strangled. “I’m sure they’ll be fine. Let’s look at the menu.” He tips his head down, hair falling across his face, before Dean can see what’s wrong with him.

It only takes Dean a few minutes to decide on his meal: there’s a pizza that sounds exactly like a meatfeast, and that’s game over. Sam takes longer, pouring over his options like the decision will influence world peace, but finally he’s ready. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” their waitress asks in perfect English. Dean’s about to order a beer when Sam steps in. 

“Yes, we’ll have a bottle of red wine, please.” Dean’s so stunned he doesn’t protest as they give their food order, the waitress beaming at them with a fond smile. She lights the candle on their table before she leaves, and dims the light over their table, sashaying off with a wink. Dean wants to know why everyone keeps winking at him.

They’re oddly quiet during their meal. They’ve never had to make conversation with each other; they spend far too much time together to fill every second with chatter. But usually, if they’re out eating, there’s a hunt to discuss or the world to save, something to keep them occupied. Tonight there’s nothing; no world-ending apocalypse, no new case to find until they get back home, and even Rowena can’t possibly get up to much mischief mid-flight. Or rather, she’s probably found someone to get up to an entirely different kind of mischief with, but that’s not their concern. 

The silence is comfortable, broken up occasionally by a comment on their food or one of Dean’s happy noises when he finds a particularly delicious bit of pizza. Dean’s sure Sam’s staring at him, can feel Sam’s eyes every time he looks down at his food; but when he lifts his head, Sam’s always looking resolutely at his pasta or into the depths of his wine glass. Dean finds himself getting stuck on the way the red is staining Sam’s lips, changing their usual pink to almost purple, and rapidly looks away. The wine must be lowering his barriers. 

“Dessert, raggazi?” their waitress asks. “Maybe one to share?” 

Not even the image of feeding Sam spoonfuls of tiramasu, Sam licking his lips with every bite, is enough to make Dean want to share a dessert. 

“No thank you,” he says firmly. “I’ll have a tiramasu, and he’ll probably have a fruit salad or something.”

Sam glares at him. “I’ll have the chocolate tart.”

Dean realises abruptly that he is going to be subjected to the sight of Sam slowly devouring a warm, gooey dessert, and nearly chokes on a mouthful of wine. 

The waitress leaves them alone again and heads to the mouth of their sidestreet before going back into the restaurant. Next thing Dean knows, there’s music sneaking towards them, the warbling, plaintive sound of a violin piercing the quiet of the night. He rolls his eyes at the sheer cheesy cliche of it all as the musician approaches.

Sam’s oddly flushed. “I… should we… we’re not…”

Dean’s never heard Sam so inarticulate, and it’s incredibly endearing. Behind her back, the waitress gives Dean a huge thumbs up, and he realises she must think they’re on a date, or a couple having a fight. Great. 

He doesn’t have the heart to tell the musician to go away; there’s something magical about the way the music is winding around them, removing the need to speak. Their sweets are discreetly slid in front of them, and Dean nibbles on his tiramasu while watching Sam so intently he barely processes the flavour. Sam seems equally entranced, eyes locked on Dean’s mouth, his free hand opening and closing on the tablecloth.

Dean has a sense memory of Sam doing that exact same thing, underneath him in a ratty motel bed while Dean’s mouth closed around his hipbones. Sam’s face had looked exactly the same, too; eyes dilated, mouth bitten dark and plush, high stripes of colour on his cheeks. Dean had been completely entranced by that look during the one week he’d been able to provoke it, and he’d made it his mission to do so as frequently as possible. But surely he’s misreading the signs; things haven’t been that way between them in more than ten years, and he’d killed off any chance getting it back when he’d let an angel possess Sam’s dying body. 

But even with the crushing guilt of what he’d done weighing him down, Dean wonders at the look on Sam’s face, the way Sam’s eyes track Dean’s spoon as it heads to his lips. He must be reading the signs wrong. 

He slips the musician a 20 when he’s finished, still feeling flush on his new credit cards. It’s probably a massive overpayment, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

“Shall we walk to the river?” Sam asks, once they’ve settled the bill. He’s still unusually quiet, even by his standards, and he presses close to Dean as they stroll, his arm knocking against Dean’s with every pace. Dean’s trying to talk himself out of it, but he’s tingling all over, stomach clenching and hands dying to reach out to his brother. He has to restrain himself; he’s sure this is all in his imagination.

The path by the river is empty when they get there, and Sam stops with his back to it, leaning against the embankment. The city is lit up behind him, rooftops and trees dancing with light as Sam shifts down, widening his legs until he’s Dean’s height. With his arms braced on the wall behind him and his legs spread, he’s a ridiculously inviting sight; Dean can see his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths under the obscenely tight t-shirt. 

Dean feels the invisible bond that tethers him to Sam pull tight, and he can’t help but step forward, until he’s stood in front of Sam. One more pace will put him between Sam’s legs, flush against his brother’s body; but Dean needs Sam to be the one to make that step. After all, Sam had been the one to make it clear that this was forever off the table between them. 

Sam takes a deep breath, hands clenching white in the moonlight, and then reaches forward, hooking his hands into Dean’s belt loops. Dean flows towards him, pressing tight, cupping Sam’s neck gently so his fingers wind into that wild mop of hair. 

“Really, Sammy?” he asks, voice barely more than a whisper. 

Sam rolls his eyes, face twisting into that epic bitch face Dean will never admit he adores. “Just kiss me, Dean, please,” Sam says, sounding put out with a hint of desperation underneath. It’s sounds good, but Dean doesn’t want him to think he can get away with that kind of sassiness, so he pulls sharply on Sam’s hair and Sam’s mouth drops open.

It’s the perfect opportunity. Dean slots his mouth over Sam’s, pushing forward quickly. It’s not like this is their first kiss; he knows exactly what Sam likes, he’s played it back in mind a million times over the years. He’s pleased to see Sam hasn’t changed; he melts against Dean instantly, hands roaming over Dean’s back and sides and down to his ass, frantic. 

Dean pulls back with a nip to Sam’s bottom lip. “Slow down, Sammy. We’ve got forever to do this.” 

Sam’s eyes widen, and Dean realises exactly what he’d said. Sam is forever for him, he’s always known that, but he shouldn’t assume Sam feels the same way. 

“I mean, if you want.” Crippling fear pours through Dean, that he’s read this wrong, that Sam’s affected by the undeniable romance of one of the world’s most beautiful cities. He’s about to pull back when Sam’s hands tighten on his hips. 

“Of course I want. I’ve always wanted and I’ll always want,” Sam says, sounding exasperated even as Dean’s heart soars. “Take me back to our hotel room.”

Dean sneaks in one last, not so quick, kiss on the banks of the Tiber before grabbing Sam’s hand. They run through the streets together, laughing, and tumble into the reception of their hotel with their hands all over each other. 

The receptionist winks at him as Dean almost pushes Sam up the stairs to his room, and Dean winks right back. She’s definitely got the right idea. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come check out my [Tumblr](https://soy-em.tumblr.com/).


End file.
